


The Certain Knot of Peace

by that_1_incident



Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F, Sibling Incest, Sister/Sister Incest, Spellcest, and a bit of insomnia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-22
Updated: 2019-02-22
Packaged: 2019-11-03 20:34:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17884766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/that_1_incident/pseuds/that_1_incident
Summary: Sleep isn't exactly an easy thing for Zelda, but in what should come as a surprise to precisely no one around her, she approaches the daily (well, nightly) challenge it poses with every inch of the tempered grace that her position as Spellman family matriarch demands. Needless to say, she's become practically an expert at vaguely musing that she "might stay up and read," and despite being fairly certain Hilda sees through this veil of pretense most if not all of the time, sheinsistsupon maintaining the charade.





	The Certain Knot of Peace

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from [Sir Philip Sidney’s Sonnet 39](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/45160/astrophil-and-stella-39-come-sleep-o-sleep-the-certain-knot-of-peace).
> 
> More Zilda can be found [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17770205) and [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17963798). 
> 
> Oh, and if you like Madam Spellman, why not peruse the following? [Something Wicked This Way Comes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16523309), [There's Magic in the Night](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16575416), [There's Something About Mary](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16676707), [Post Tenebras Lux](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16781785), [The Shadowy Murmur of Suns](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16922571), [The Deathly Solace of Presence](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17299514), and [The Silvery Glamour of Star-Birth](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17659382).

Sleep isn't exactly an easy thing for Zelda, but in what should come as a surprise to precisely no one around her, she approaches the daily (well, nightly) challenge it poses with every inch of the tempered grace that her position as Spellman family matriarch demands. Needless to say, she's become practically an expert at vaguely musing that she "might stay up and read," adopting just the right amount of spontaneity to imply being struck by the desire completely out of nowhere and entirely on a whim. 

Despite being fairly certain Hilda sees through this veil of pretense most if not all of the time, she _insists_ upon maintaining the charade. To her credit, Hilda plays along - even going so far as to affect a similarly casual air, announce she quite fancies a cup of tea, then nonchalantly inquire whether Zelda might like one. (And if Hilda happens to slip some lavender or valerian root into the brew, she'll maintain to the death that the decision is wholly predicated on gustatory enhancement and has absolutely nothing to do with the additives' soporific properties.)

Indeed, this unspoken agreement is one of many such accords dating back to their childhood that the sisters will continue to mutually uphold in perpetuity yet avoid ever actually acknowledging. Even within the Church of Night's cloistered community, the three Spellman siblings were known for their close bond, and the two girls' connection has always been especially strong because Edward - the only boy, the oldest, and the heir apparent - was given his own room when they were growing up, which meant Hilda and Zelda were stuck sharing. (And as the second-oldest, Zelda naturally awarded herself first pick of their matching twin beds, leaving Hilda to make do with what remained.)

\--

It's almost midnight when Hilda finally enters the parlor; per usual, she'd waited what she deemed to be an acceptable amount of time before padding down the stairs, making a beeline for the kitchen, and proceeding to rattle around loudly, thereby providing her sister ample opportunity to dissuade her from putting the kettle on. This time, Zelda said nothing, and thus Hilda made tea. 

\--

With the now mostly empty cup cooling atop its saucer on the table beside her, Zelda regards the well-worn Satanic Bible lying open on her lap. Her eyes roam across words so familiar that she barely needs to read them in the first place, committed as they are to her memory, verse by Luciferian verse. Their very cadence lulls her into an otherwise elusive sense of calm that she suspects rather closely resembles what Ambrose seems to be experiencing whenever she descends to the embalming room and catches him singing along to the radio, cheerfully separating a corpse from its entrails and blissfully unaware of making any noise at all.

Regardless, with the witching hour almost at hand, Zelda's pleased to realize her eyelids are beginning to feel blessedly heavy. She glances over at Hilda, about to suggest they head up to bed for the remainder of the night, but the words die in her throat at the sight of the telltale blush staining her sister’s cheeks.

“Sister!” she says sharply, and Hilda meets her eyes with a hint of sheepishness. “What is it you’ve got there?”

Hilda bites the plump swell of her lip in a manner that makes Zelda’s cunt tingle before lifting her book to reveal a positively salacious front cover.

“Really, Hilda,” Zelda chastises, glaring reproachfully over the reading glasses that her considerable vanity precludes her from ever wearing in front of others, present company excepted. “You’ll rot your brain if you’re not careful. Can’t you find something more stimulating to sink your teeth into?” When Hilda's blush intensifies, she rolls her eyes and clarifies with more than a touch of disparagement, “ _Intellectually_ stimulating, sister.” 

The eyebrow Hilda quirks in her direction makes her realize her voice is none too lightly laced with intrigue, and sleep is suddenly banished to the very furthest recesses of her mind as she beholds her sister's flushed face and sparkling eyes. Truth be told, she feels absolutely awash with titillation - the depths of which she's confident she'd be reticent to admit even if force-fed an entire malum malus washed down by a splash of veritaserum for good measure - and the heat beneath her silken nightgown pools so ferociously that she’s surprised incontrovertible evidence of her arousal isn't seeping unbidden through the fabric. 

“What’s this one about?” she asks, expelling a put-upon sigh and carefully setting her Bible next to the aforementioned cup and saucer.

“It's, erm...” Hilda lowers her gaze for a moment, then looks up if trying to gauge the true nature of Zelda's inquiry. Bolstered by an almost imperceptible nod, she continues conspiratorially, “Well, it's rather saucy.” A grin tugs at her lips. “He’s next in line to run his family’s company - at the height of the Industrial Revolution, no less! - but he’s in love with the maid.”

“The maid,” Zelda echoes with as much disapproval as she can muster. Parting her legs none too subtly, she revels in the darkly hungry expression that falls swiftly across her sister's face like a shadow. “Whatever does he see in her?”

They stare unblinkingly at each other for a beat until Hilda rises decisively from her chair and begins to cross the room, simultaneously smoothing the slightly rumpled satin of her sleepwear. Zelda's heart skips a beat.

“Well...” Hilda straddles her without further preamble, hovers above her partially exposed thighs for a few agonizing seconds, then settles in her lap like a cat. “She’s very pretty.”

"Surely she’s more than just a pretty face?” Zelda queries, willing her voice not to tremble as her sister reverently traces the curve of her cheekbone. When Hilda’s achingly light touch reaches the corner of her mouth, she presses a soft kiss to her sister’s fingertip.

“Much more,” Hilda confirms, grinning at the supreme devastation instantly wrought upon Zelda's countenance by a mere roll of her hips. “And she’s quite a slut, to boot.”

At that, Zelda arches upward practically unconsciously, hardly realizing what she's doing until her body's already in motion, and the pleasing pressure of her sister’s shapely hips makes her gasp.

“A _slut_?” she repeats incredulously, again aiming for disapproval, again abjectly failing.

As if to provide an answer to her question, Hilda’s hand strokes up her thigh, dips beneath her nightgown, and proceeds to delicately stroke the outline of her folds. Zelda knows she must be soaking by now, knows her sister must feel it, and her suspicions are confirmed when Hilda quips, “Not unlike yourself, Zelds,” and incisively plunges two fingers between her legs.

Zelda barely has the chance to process the intrusion before Hilda's kissing her roughly, biting down with a savagery that deliciously contradicts her altogether angelic appearance, the delicate gold of her hair, the baby-blue of her eyes. Writhing under the simultaneous sensations of her sister’s slicked fingers and even slicker tongue, Zelda can't seem to hold back a whine, which prompts Hilda to smirk triumphantly against her mouth.

“At the end of the day, you’re really nothing more than an uncivilized little trollop,” Hilda murmurs, the warmth of her breath paradoxically sending a chill down Zelda's spine; Zelda mewls in agreement, her eyes fluttering shut, the walls of her cunt clenching with a quiver. “Just a common little tart,” Hilda hisses, fingers curling in such a way as to render immediate lightheadedness.

“Only for you, sister,” Zelda somehow manages to affirm. 

Hilda nips at her lip in approval, withdrawing her fingers almost completely before ramming them back into their rightful slot. When her plush bosom presses against the more modest swell of Zelda's breast, Zelda fancies she might expire from the sheer abundance of it all, and as if sensing her imminent unraveling, Hilda tugs her hair none too gently and whispers in her ear, “The Dark Lord doesn’t own you; I do.”

Zelda comes in an instant, her pleasure-wracked body shuddering around her sister’s dripping digits. As her helpless whimpers dissolve amid the loose blonde locks lightly tickling her cheek, her nostrils faintly register the vague, wafting scent of Hilda’s strawberry shampoo.

Impressively, Hilda resumes her role of sweet-tempered nurturer with an air of never having deviated from it in the slightest, stroking Zelda's shoulder attentively while she waits for her sister's ragged breaths to even out. At this juncture, Zelda's certain her lipstick must be smudged and her hair disarranged - to say nothing of the mess between her thighs, which feels viscous and uncouth. Mercifully, Hilda makes no mention of any of this, merely slides out of her sister with an abjectly indecent sound before rising victoriously from Zelda’s lap. There’s a bounce in her step as she retrieves her book, and her eyes glimmer mirthfully when she pauses on the threshold between the parlor and the foyer.

“I’ll see you upstairs in a minute, then, shall I?” she asks cheerily.

Not quite trusting herself to speak, Zelda closes her legs, purses her lips, and nods.


End file.
